One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,25

have signed it, too.”

She shook her head. “Family is supposed to come first.”

He frowned. “Then why wouldn’t you have come first, to them? Aren’t you family, too?”

She stared back at him, speechless. It was not an argument that had ever been made on her behalf before.

“I’m part of the family,” she stammered. “Because I can’t spend Christmastide with them, they come up and stay in the castle. You’d be surprised how many aunts and cousins can fit in one suite. The exorbitant prices that castle charges tourists for a single night’s stay... Instead, they have free lodgings, free food, and free entertainment because of me. It’s a holiday they could never have dreamed of, if I hadn’t signed that agreement. They wouldn’t have this opportunity without me.”

“That’s not what you want, is it?” His gaze held hers. “You don’t want to be the person they visit because of a free room at the inn. You want to be the cousin they’re proud to be related to because she’s a talented jeweler worthy of admiration and respect.”

“It’ll be seven years this Christmas,” she said with a sigh. “I thought I’d be a success by now.”

“Aren’t you?” His voice was softer. Closer. He was no longer tucked safely at the other end of the long counter, but leaning on his elbow at a distance close enough to touch. “You look like a successful woman to me.”

She didn’t answer. Her throat was too dry.

“Your friend didn’t ask you to design ten important adornments at the last minute because you’re the only jeweler in Cressmouth,” he continued. “She asked because she knew you would succeed. That whatever you created would be worth writing about in the newspaper. She came to you because you’re splendid at what you do.”

Her fingers shook. She set down the hammer and swage.

He reached for her hand.

She placed hers in his without question.

He brought her fingers to his lips and pressed a soft, slow kiss to her knuckles without taking his eyes from hers. Then he cradled her trembling palm in his and began to massage the muscles. It should have been presumptuous. Instead, it was perfect.

Had she claimed there wasn’t enough wine in England for them to kiss? She was beginning to think there was no force in England powerful enough to stop it from happening.

Not that Mr. MacLean would be stealing anything. If Angelica found herself in his arms...

It would be because she’d launched herself there willingly.

Chapter 7

By the fifth day of being snowed in, in a tiny village, with no hope of escape, Jonathan would have expected to be going none-too-quietly mad.

Instead, he was perched on a wooden stool at the long oak counter in Miss Parker’s jeweler’s shop. He read aloud from a leather-bound collection of Ignatius Sancho’s letters whenever Miss Parker was between customers and trying to concentrate on the adornments she was making for the upcoming Yuletide ball at Marlowe Castle.

According to her, Jonathan’s rugged, manly Scottish burr was the perfect tone and volume to disregard completely whilst molding gold or setting jewels. Of course, this was said with a smile. Far from ignoring his endless chatter, she seemed to truly enjoy it. Not with casual amusement, as a hackney driver or haberdasher might. Miss Parker listened carefully. She wanted to hear Jonathan’s stories. She liked his chatter. It was dizzying.

The frequent conversations that punctuated today’s readings were just as interesting and elucidating as the text itself. Jonathan found himself engaging with the material—with Miss Parker—on a level far more profound than his usual superficial interactions. He wasn’t talking at her. These discussions were something they did together.

Jonathan tried to pretend that entertainment was the only reason he was doing this: perhaps to learn something whilst distracting himself from his wintry plight.

But the truth was, it didn’t feel like a plight. He looked forward to each new morning, because it was another opportunity to see Miss Parker. If she asked it of him, he would have climbed atop his stool and quoted geology texts all day. He liked watching her work.

He liked watching her, full stop.

Her tight black curls, escaping what was meant to be a severe, no-nonsense bun. Her wide brown eyes, framed by curling black lashes. Her dimpled cheeks and kissable lips. The column of her throat, her pulse fluttering at the base. The soft brown skin that invited his touch. The swell of her bosom, displayed to advantage in a pale pink bodice. Just beneath it, the satin ribbon that encircled